


Baby, Driver.

by rivermoon



Category: Baby Driver (2017), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Crossover, Gen, Gun Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivermoon/pseuds/rivermoon
Summary: After the Post Office debacle, Baby is on the run from both the law and Buddy. Mostly Buddy. Of course, Baby seems to be some kind of universal trouble magnet because as soon as he escapes one clandestine operation, he runs straight into another. At least this one’s on the lighter side of the moral spectrum.Or, Baby joins the Kingsman, mostly by accident (oops).





	1. Chapter 1

Baby’s running on pure adrenaline at this point, mind ticking frantically into overdrive as he clutches the steering wheel of his most recently lifted car, a sleek silver Mercedes-Benz, from Doc’s garage.

From the diner, Baby had gone back for his tape – just the one, the _important_ one – and he’d gladly traded the duffel bag full of money orders for that one cassette. As soon as he had it in his palm, traced the childish scrawl of ‘MOM’ with his thumb, something inside of him had relaxed an infinitesimal amount. It must have shown on his face, since Doc had looked at him funny then, an expression that, on any other man, Baby might have described as _fond_. Of course, that’s when everything went to shit.

Buddy swerved into the parking lot in his stolen police car, all screeching metal and acrid, burning rubber, and opened fire. Doc and Baby had dived behind a car, and Doc pressed something metallic into his hand. Baby looked down – a set of keys.

“I don’t want that madman on my ass, Baby” he had muttered, to the backdrop of gunshots “he’s after you anyway. Leave. We’re square.”

“Are we done?”

“… we’re done. Goodbye, Baby.”

A break in the staccato rhythm of gunfire, and the white noise in Baby’s ears returned full force.

Reloading.

Something instinctual, a reflex honed by Baby since he’d fallen into this life of crime at 12, screamed at him to run. So he ran. A curse from behind him, as Buddy fumbled to reload his semi-automatic. Heart in his throat, Baby dived for the Mercedes, wrenching the door open and jamming the key in the ignition. He pulled away just as the shots resumed, instinctually ducking as the hail of gunfire cut through the passenger side windows. _Pedal to the metal_ he thought, as he pulled a tight turn and accelerated past Buddy, who was forced to leap out of the way. As he screeched out of the parking lot, a backward glance showed Buddy, cursing, scrambling back toward his stolen car.

 _He’s never gonna stop chasing me_. The realisation came with an unexpected sense of relief. Buddy chasing him meant that he wouldn’t be going after anyone else. Joseph and Debora were safe. Joseph would be looked after in that nursing home, no longer in danger because of his foster son’s stupid decisions and dangerous mistakes.

 _Ah,_ and there was that guilt again, a lead weight dropped in his stomach. _Right on cue_. Joseph would be safer without Baby anyway, and probably happier too, without the constant stress of a foster son who was liable to bring criminals and thugs to his door at any moment.

And Debora. Well, she had barely known Baby for a fortnight. Debora, like any normal human being, had taken one look at the guns and the blood and looked like she was about to be sick. The horror, the _fear_ in her eyes as she backed up against the diner wall with her hands in the air stung a little, Baby would admit, but this was for the best. She didn’t belong in this world, and he had no right to drag her into it. She’d go back to her life, get over their brief _thing_ , and eventually he’d be no more than a character in her story of _what’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?_

But that was then, and this is now. Baby’s lip twitches, an almost-smirk. _Just me, my music and the open road_. Of course, that was an impossible dream. Buddy would always be a spectre, hanging over him. One of them would have to die before Buddy gave up, and Baby really did not want it to be him. But then again, Baby didn’t know if he had it in him to kill Buddy. _We’ll just have to play it by ear_.

A plan would come later. For now, Baby would drive. The solid presence of a wheel under his steady palms, the comforting purr of the engine and – Baby flicked on his iPod – music loud enough to drown out the buzzing in his head. Weaving in and out of traffic, Baby made his escape. A couple of times, Buddy in his battered police car came a touch too close for comfort, each encounter another shot of adrenaline into Baby’s system as he executed tight turns around buildings, swerved through lanes of traffic, and pulled out every trick in his (admittedly large) playbook to lose the insane man.

 _Peace on the open road?_   Who was he kidding? Baby knew himself, and this – the adrenaline rush of a high speed chase, his complete mastery over the machine under his hands as he guided it, perfectly in tune with the beat of a song – was what made him feel _alive_.

*

After fifteen minutes without a sighting of Buddy, Baby spots a parking complex.

_Should probably switch rides._

Baby turns into the lot, eyes already scanning for the most inconspicuous vehicle available. Instead, his gaze lands on the car turning into the north-side entrance, directly towards him.

A battered, bullet-riddled police car. With a manically grinning Buddy in the driver’s seat, bringing his semi-automatic up to point directly at Baby.

 _Fuck_ , is his first thought, as he ducks and jerks the steering wheel hard to the right. Over the gunfire, a metallic screeching and a sudden jerk of the car tells Baby that one of his tires has been shot out. More gunfire, and the engine blows out. Baby realises he’s going to have to leg it. He yanks open the door and scrambles out, trying to duck for cover. He’s not quick enough.

Baby jerks forward from the force, losing his footing as pain blossoms through his thigh. He knows he has to keep moving, an instinctual part of his brain screaming _get out get away run NOW_ , but his leg isn’t cooperating and he’s still on the ground. He brings his hand away from where it’s instinctively clutched to the wound and it’s already dripping with blood. Through the haze of pain, he sees Buddy smirk victoriously, emerging from his battered car, gun trained on Baby.

 _This is it_ , Baby thinks. The ringing has returned again at full force. He’s going to die, and it’s going to be to the backdrop of the _fucking ringing_.

And then two more cars swerve into the parking lot, and Baby hears a symphony of gunshots. But Buddy isn’t firing his gun. They both stare, slack-jawed, at the new entrants. The first vehicle is driven by a hulking bear of a man, a panicked scowl on his face as he realises he can’t avoid Baby’s and Buddy’s cars, swerving so the passenger’s side of his car takes the brunt of the damage. The impact is bone rattling from Baby’s position on the ground near the wreckage, so Baby reckons he can’t be blamed for the nonsense that his brain decides is important to note about what happens next, considering he’s still _about to fucking die_.

 _That’s a beautiful car_ , is the thought, as the second car ( _Aston Martin DB9_ , Baby’s brain supplies) screeches to a halt just short of the three-car wreckage. A young man in a bespoke suit steps out, a gun trained on the big guy in one hand, and a fucking _umbrella_ , of all things, in the other.

“Return the drive now, and perhaps you’ll walk out of this alive. And it better be intact; I didn’t chase you across the bloody Atlantic for a broken drive.”

A Brit, then, and a posh one at that. The big guy in the car snarls, lifting his hand to reveal another gun, and opens fire on Bespoke (so Baby’s been in the business long enough to automatically start giving everyone nicknames. Sue him). Bespoke must have a few screws loose, because he brings up the umbrella like he expects it to protect him from anything; Baby almost flinches, but doesn’t look away –

And somehow, impossibly, the umbrella is _deflecting bullets_. Bespoke twists the handle of the umbrella, and it fires some kind of dart at Big Guy, who slumps over, unconscious.

_What._

Bespoke jogs up to the car, unperturbed, and leans through the broken windshield, rifling around for something in the passenger seat. As such, he doesn’t notice fast enough when Big Guy twitches.

What Baby does next, in hindsight, is overwhelmingly idiotic.

“Look out!” he shouts, and Bespoke jerks his head back up just in time to see Big Guy lunge for him. Baby doesn’t see the ensuing struggle, since his shout seems to have reminded Buddy that Baby is wounded on the ground, barely 30 feet away. He snarls and cocks his gun.

Baby’s brain reminds him, again, how _monumentally stupid_ he is.

“Hey, Baby,” Buddy drawls, slinking toward him. “Six. That’s the magic number. You know why? That’s how many bullets _you_ put in my Darling. It’s time for some payback, Baby.” He drawls the name, a slimy curl around the syllables which would have left a disgusted feeling in the pit of Baby’s stomach, had its place not already been taken with the horror and adrenaline of the realisation that _oh god fucking shit I’m going to die he’s going to kill me_.

“You in pain, Baby? Well, I’m gonna put another 5 slugs in you, for my Darling. She took the last one to the heart, you know? It was over just. Like. That.” He fires, and Baby screams.

Pain shoots through his right side. Baby fights for consciousness against the blood-tinged blackness on the edges of his vision. Instinctively, he curls into the wound.

“Now, the hard part here is figuring out where to getcha to make sure you die a slow, painful death. Maybe I’ll take your ear off next, Baaaaaby.”

Baby gasps for breath, opens his mouth in a (fruitless, he knows) plea despite the pain already lancing through him. Buddy laughs, a touch maniacally, and lines up the shot.

Baby stares him down, even as he fights to cling to consciousness.

A whistling sound, so different to the expected sharp _bang_ of Buddy’s gun, makes Baby briefly, hysterically, think he’s hallucinating.  _Has Buddy fired the shot yet? Is his hearing gone? Is that what a bullet sounds like when you're mostly deaf?_

But then Buddy keels over, slumping unceremoniously to the ground. Baby stares uncomprehendingly.

Bespoke is standing in front of Baby, where he was previously obscured by Buddy’s figure. His watch is raised to his face and braced like a weapon, and the glass over the clock face is flipped up to reveal a set of cross-hairs.

 _Well isn’t that some James Bond shit_ , thinks Baby, and then promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched Baby Driver, and couldn't stop thinking about Eggsy's car chase scene in the Kingsman opening. One thing led to another, and this idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. Basically, I'm obessed with the idea of Baby as the Kingsman's (or Eggsy's) valet/getaway driver.
> 
> Also, I'm not that happy with Baby Driver's treatment of Debora - yeah, this girl? She's got hardly any major character traits outside of "hot" and "likes music", has no life outside of the diner, and is prepared to run off and live like a fugitive for the rest of her life with some dude she knows nothing about. Bit too chauvinistic-male-fantasy for me, nty. But that's an idea for another day.
> 
> Also, I know nothing about cars, or guns. Actually, this was a terrible choice of a first fic. If you see any inaccuracies, please do point them out. Also any typos, since this hasn't been beta read.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Baby returns to consciousness first in increments, then suddenly all at once with the reflexes of someone who’s spent his formative years deep in a life of crime. His eyes snap open and he automatically tries to sit up – laying down makes you vulnerable, and being vulnerable is dangerous, Baby has learned.

His body, however, apparently doesn’t agree with this philosophy as it loudly protests Baby’s sudden change in position. Pain returns at full force in his leg and torso, forcing him to bite down on a scream.

As the pain ebbs to a slightly more manageable throb, Baby takes stock of his surroundings. He is no longer in the car park; the elegant décor and silky sheets resting against his legs say that he’s sitting on a bed in… someone’s apartment? A hotel? Wherever he is, it looks upscale, and probably pricey.

His wounds have been neatly bandaged. _Who…?_

“You awake then?” A thicker, working class London accent. Doc had had dealings with an England-based weapon-smuggler’s ring for a while – their American liaison had spoken like that.

The owner of the voice approaches the doorway. Baby scrambles, instinctively, to put some distance between himself and the potential threat. This just makes his wounds renew their protesting, and almost results in Baby toppling off the bed, if not for the stranger _(Oh, it’s the suit guy. Why does he sound different?)_ hurrying to steady him.

“Whoa, whoa, you ok there bruv? We ain’t gonna hurt you.” he seems to mean it (at least for now), so Baby wearily permits Bespoke to guide him back into a sitting position on the bed. Baby, winded from the once again spiking pain, can’t quite concentrate enough to form a coherent answer. Bespoke seems to get it though, since he just keeps his side of the conversation going.

“My name’s Eggsy. Thanks for the save back there, by the way. That guy might’ve snapped my neck if I’d been a second later with this.” He gestures to his hand, and the fancy looking ring perched on his finger.

Baby quirks his eyebrow in a question, and Eggsy grins back.

“Signet ring. Doubles as a taser: fifty-thousand volts. Sick, huh?”

The other eyebrow rises to join the first one.

“Sick.” Baby eventually manages. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Oh, me and my partner – he’s out at the mo’, cleaning up the last bit of paperwork. It’s not really my thing, paperwork. Much better at the exploding bits, I am. Your turn though; who’re you?”

“Baby.”

“… Baby?”

“B-A-B-Y. Baby. Yeah. Uh, did you…” He gestures down at his bandaged torso and leg, though the answer is already pretty obvious.

“Yeah, that was me. Least I could do for you saving my ass though, so don’t stress about it.”

Ah, yes. That moment when Baby had yelled out a warning at Bes- Eggsy ( _Eggsy, really? And he had the nerve to question Baby’s name)_ and almost got himself killed for his trouble. _Oh-_

“Buddy! He – ”

“Buddy?” Eggsy looks confused at the nickname. “Was there someone else with you? There wasn’t anyone else in the lot other than the dude who was trying to kill you. And if that’s someone you consider a friend, I’d hate to see your enemies, bruv.”

“Buddy’s a name. He’s… not my friend. But where– He’s not going to stop, I gotta leave –” Baby goes to stand, gritting his teeth against the pain. He’s hardly managed to swing his feet onto the ground, however, when Eggsy is there again, an incredulous expression on his face and all but mothering him back into bed.

“Relax. In that state, you ain’t going anywhere at speed. I knocked the dude out and left him with the other guy. Relevant authorities should’ve found ‘em by now.”

Somehow, Baby finds it difficult to take Eggsy’s assertions of his safety at face value. It would be too easy – there’s no way it would be over just like that, right? If it was true, though, Baby would be free. Not that he had anything left to go back to anymore.

Eggsy looks conflicted, but seems to come to some internal decision. He seems about to speak, but Baby doesn’t notice, still deep in thought.

_What would he do? No cash, no car (not after it had been totalled back in the lot), not even –_

His cassette! _Where is it?_ Baby’s eyes widen in panic, as he frantically scans the room for the small yellow cassette. It’s nowhere to be seen. He pats down his clothing frantically, as if it will magically appear in a pocket. Still nothing.

_No!_

He remembers, now.

 _… Screeching rubber on asphalt as his tyres blew out – scraping palms on the ground as he dived out of the car – the cassette,_ still sitting inside the car.

_Oh no._

“The car. I _need_ to go back – I have – I need… there’s something important.”

Eggsy falters for a moment, troubled. “Sorry mate, we might have a problem there. All the cars are under lock and key at an… _associate’s_ facility. Evidence, you see. Whatever you’re looking for, it sure as hell ain’t in that parking lot anymore.”

Baby, always prepared for the worst, feels his heart leap at the possibility that maybe, _just maybe_ , the cassette hasn’t yet been destroyed. A deep breath, and he steels himself, ready to plead his case to this near-stranger ( _though are you still strangers after you’ve saved one another’s lives?_ ).

He’s probably been quiet for too long, and he glances up to see Eggsy scrutinising him with a considering look.

Baby takes another breath.

Eggsy speaks first.

“Whatever this thing is, it’s really important to you, innit?”

“… yeah.”

A deep breath from Eggsy, “You might be able to get it back. Least I could do since you saved my hide. Come with me.”

Too relieved to think much on Eggsy’s sudden change of heart, Baby grits his teeth and stands. After the initial spike, his wounds settle to a manageable throb and he follows Eggsy out of the hotel room, down the elevator and towards –

 _Oh, the Aston Martin **.**_ It’s an undeniably beautiful car, and Baby tries to hide his gawking. Eggsy pins him with an amused look, though, and smirks.

“Hm. Probably not allowed to do this, but…” he leans in conspiratorially, and Baby instinctively mirrors the action.

“Wanna drive?”

_Oh, hell yes!_

Eggsy outright laughs at that, and Baby belatedly realises he’d breathed the words aloud. With a wry grin, he grabs the tossed keys and slides into the driver’s seat.

Soon, the pair are pulling out of the hotel garage and speeding down the road. Baby takes a moment to enjoy the sheer responsiveness of the car and the purr of the engine, listening with half an ear to Eggsy’s directions.

He considers asking Eggsy where exactly they’re going, as they seem to be weaving around town without any real direction, and the moment he opens his mouth is when everything goes to shit.

A car draws up beside them and _rams_ into the driver-side door, the resulting screech of metal on metal breaking through the constant whine in his ears. Baby whips his head around, to glare or shout abuse, he’s not sure yet, and makes direct eye contact with the muzzle of a gun.

“Down!” yells Eggsy, and Baby listens instinctively.

He ducks his head and hears the distinctive _pssh_ of a silenced handgun. He glances at Eggsy, who already has his own firearm in hand and is leaning over Baby, toward their assailant. He fires off three rapid rounds through the broken window, toward the driver, then another three aimed in the general direction of the other car’s wheels.

“Fuck, they’re after me. Can you shake em’ off?” Eggsy asks quickly, as he slouches down into his seat to reload, before taking aim and continuing the firefight.

Baby grunts an affirmative, shifting gears to execute an absurdly sharp turn into an alleyway, barely slowing down. As their assailant misses the turn entirely and shoots past, Eggsy huffs his amusement.

“Sick moves there, bruv. Where did you learn to do that?”

_I was blackmailed into becoming the getaway driver for a crime ring when I was twelve._

That’s a dangerous answer, even if it is the truth. So Baby keeps his mouth shut and decides Eggsy will just have to be satisfied with an, “I’ve had practise.”

Baby draws a winding path through the city, and Eggsy eventually deems them safe enough to give Baby actual directions to their destination. They make their way to the outskirts of town, and pull up to a dingy looking wrecking yard. Eggsy glances at his phone as it vibrates, and frowns at whatever he sees on the screen. He glances briefly at Baby, assessing, and sighs.

“Something’s come up. My partner’s lost his ride – needs an extraction. Your car should be in bay eleven. I’ll be back in half an hour, max.”

Baby shrugs, indifferent, and gets out of the car. Eggsy slides easily into the driver’s seat, pulling down the handbrake. Just before he leaves, a thought seems to occur to him and he glances back up at Baby.

“Oh yeah, and remember: Oxfords, not brogues.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Baby with just a trail of dust and a lot of confusion. _Oxfords-not-brogues? What does that even mean?_

 

*

 

The receptionist at the wrecking yard glances up at the sound of the doorbell when Baby limps into the office, glancing at Baby with a look of extreme apathy shared by retail workers everywhere. The door shuts silently behind Baby as he approaches the desk. There’s something awkwardly quiet about the room, and the buzzing in his ears is louder than ever.

“Um, left something in my car?”

“… which bay?” drawls the receptionist, her tone conveying pure disinterest.

“Eleven.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. The ringing is near deafening now.

“Ain’t no bay eleven here. Only goes up to eight. You got the wrong yard, son. Bye.”

Her manicured nails click on the desk as she goes back to gazing apathetically at the opposite wall, dismissing him. Baby is confused. Eggsy had definitely said bay eleven – was this some kind of shitty joke? But Baby is desperate to get that cassette back, and has no way out of here until Eggsy returns. He remains standing at the desk, unsure of what to say next. Eventually, the lady speaks again, still staring into the middle distance.

“Got something else to say, darlin’?”

Baby is desperate enough to get into the yard that he blurts the first nonsense that comes to mind.

“…Oxfords, not brogues?

She glances at Baby, then – no, _past_ him – as the light tinkle of the doorbell announces a new presence. Her eyes widen with panic, and that’s all Baby needs to whirl around as fast as he can, swallowing a pained gasp as the sudden movement strains his injuries.

Two men stand in the doorway, both with pistols trained on Baby. They advance on him, and one backs him roughly against the receptionist’s desk.

The lady is gone.

It’s then that Baby registers that the larger of the two has been yelling at him.

“Who is he? The guy in the suit?!”

Baby doesn’t respond. This seems to aggravate the man further, as his face reddens and crumples with rage, spittle flying from his mouth as he continues to scream.

“I know you know! Who. Is. He?” He jams the gun into Baby’s side, forcing a pained groan.

“I don’t know!”

“Tell me his name, and I’ll let you live. You’ll never hear from us again. Keep quiet, and I’ll fucking blow your insides out.”

Pain blurs the edges of Baby’s vision, but he only shakes his head and keeps his mouth sealed shut.

The second man, much calmer, seems to recognise Baby’s resolve.

“He won’t talk, man. But now he knows our faces.” He clicks the safety off his gun and point it at Baby’s head. “Last chance, kid.”

Baby is silent.

“Too bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy! Also, I have no beta so please hit me up with any errors you spot - thanks.


End file.
